


Mariner / Voyager

by maritimeMelancholy



Series: maritimeMelancholy [1]
Category: Fantrolls - Fandom, Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: A Luke Wilson origin story, Digital Art, Fantrolls, Gen, I absolutely DO NOT claim to be a legitimate scientist, LOTS of art in here, Mauritius, Original Character(s), Quantum Mechanics, Sailing, Science Fiction, Shipwrecks, The "Horizont", The night he vanished to Alternia, maritimeMelancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 22:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16026956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maritimeMelancholy/pseuds/maritimeMelancholy
Summary: July 7th, 2011.Dark was the night, and wet was the ground. The ground was water. You are Luke Wilson, you are 17 years old, and you are sailing away from your problems off the Eastern Coast of Mauritius. You have a lot on your mind and you are about to have even more.





	1. Chapter 1

“Lat -20, Long 57.”  
“What are you doing out there?”  
“I don’t know.” You replied instinctively, setting the radio down in silence.

  
There is quiet. You look out onto the swells as the last of twilight burns itself from the sky. The wind is light but steady. The water is manageable. You pick the radio back up again.

  
“I’ve been out here a while.” You say with a thirst. You wonder if there is any orange juice left in the galley.  
“I understand.” He replies. He probably really did understand. If anything, that just made you angrier at him. He understood so well that it was difficult to say anything in response.

  
The telltale on your jib shifted mildly, so you ticked the helm to lee to stay at a comfortable close reach.  
The radio sparks again.

  
“When are you coming home?”  
“I am home.”  
“Aye.”

  
It goes quiet.  
You latch the helm for a moment, content to let her take care of herself while you ducked below for a drink. You had left the orange juice out- which was unlike you. Upon picking the carton up, you remember that it was empty anyway. That was fair enough.

  
“I didn’t mean for all those things to happen.” His voice rang out from aloft as if he was still on board with you at that very moment.  
You grab a cheap South African lager from the fridge and head back on deck.  
“I know you didn’t. It’s not your fault.”  
“You know, people don’t say that to me often enough.” He joked. You cracked a smile. It was funny.  
“Is it better now?”  
“It’s gotten quieter. There’s still a lot to be sorted now that the clean-up is out of the way.”  
“That’s good.”  
“The best we can ask for.”  
Quieter.  
“I’m sorry about-“  
“You don’t have to apologize to me, grandpa.” You interrupt. Poor radio etiquette.  
“What was that?”  
“You don’t have to apologize to me. It wasn’t your fault.” You clarify, setting the radio back down afterward to pry the top off of the lager by jamming it against the helm. You take a sip.  
It’s not very good. Too tangy for a beer.  
“Yeah.”  
“Obviously I didn’t want to-… I mean. I did what I had to do. Just like you did.”  
“I didn’t want that kind of life for you, though, lad.”  
“It led me back to you.”  
“And right into danger.”  
“Yeah, well, I guess got that from you.”  
It was his turn to laugh. He didn’t hold the radio button down, but it was a good joke. You were sure he probably laughed.

  
“What have you been doing out there, anyway?”  
“Do you remember the, er… project I was working on?”  
“Don’t.”  
The radio sparks sharply.  
“You don’t think that it could be something incredible?”  
“Lucas. Don’t.”  
“Grandpa.”  
“It’s not wise, it’s not safe, and it’s certainly not healthy.”  
“It could be-“  
“Lucas, I understand how you feel. I didn’t raise you to have to be part of the world that I was raised in. But you’ll be a lot better off if you just drop it and come home.”  
“You- Grandpa.”  
“What? What do you think is going to happen?”

  
The world stood still.  
“I don’t know, I mean… Did you read what I found?”  
You feel your heart beating as if it were at half-mast.  
“I read enough.”  
“You made me fight a war.”

  
Now it was serious.  
The sea itself seemed to freeze over and the wind cut through you like a knife.  
The silence was sickening.  
“I love you more than anything else in this world, Lucas Woodrow.”

Your finger hovers over the talk button, but you can’t bring yourself to hold it down or even formulate a reply in your head.  
“I know it’s hard being alone on that ship. I can’t fix that for you. I can’t take those years back that I stole from you, my boy. As much as I wish I could. But you can’t do this to yourself. You can’t throw yourself into this.”  
You finally manage the courage to say something, even if it’s through choked-back tears.  
“Well, why not?”  
“Lucas.”  
“Yeah?”  
“It’s not real.”  
“…”

  
The world resumes spinning around you. The shadowy coast of Mauritius falls invisible against the black shroud of the horizon.  
You catch your breath, letting the oncoming swell take your legs out from under you as you fall to your knees to clutch at the metal spokes of the helm.  
Nobody would ever believe you.  
Your only family didn’t believe you.  
The rest of your family was dead.  
There was only you.  
You and a radio alone at latitude -20 and longitude 57.

  
“Lucas.”  
Your hand fumbles for the radio, and eventually finds it on the console.  
“Aye.”  
“I love you, my boy. Please come home.”  
“I love you too, grandpa.”

 

“I’ll see you soon.”


	2. Chapter 2

  
The air was cool and crisp and the night was black- the only deviations from which being those of the red and green navigation lights aloft on the mast. The Christmasy glow of which, to any sailor, was a faint but definitive sign that they were not alone in the seemingly impermeable void of the ocean. There was no white light permissible during the night watch- even on a one-man vessel- for the saving of one’s eyesight. White light could sabotage a human’s night vision within the second of gazing upon it, while a colored light would do little to disrupt it. Even still, the glow of Mauritius’ coast was only vaguely recognizable from this vantage. You had swung your ship around the reef of small isles peppering the coast, your course set in the hopes of reaching Round Island for a quiet harbor to collect yourself after resupplying at Blue Bay a night prior.

The Horizont, the ship that you had spent your entire life on, was sailing smoothly at the time of 19:07 on this, the night of July 7th, 2011. The sun had formally gone down merely a few hours prior- but darkness had fallen fast as it were. An empty bottle of lager sat rattling on the helm’s console. You look briefly out ahead. Traffic was short. You assume that most ships had likely cut inward through the channel between the mainland and the isles. That was most likely ideal for passage through the night, as there would be significantly fewer ships to potentially run into your humble Cal 39. You consider the words of your grandfather earlier and his mockery of your research.

No, not mockery. Pragmatism. What did you expect?

The trolls. The aliens. The Alternians. They first contacted you in the fall- the reason for which has since remained unclear. You had naturally assumed it to be an elaborate hoax at first. There was no logical reason for a small sailing vessel in the middle of the Indian Ocean to have the only existing network capable of connecting with an alien species, or at least none that you were fundamentally aware of. Your radio had been rigged by your grandfather long before you were born- and well before he had ever obtained ownership of the Horizont. You consider your grandfather again. He was right to be dubious. Obviously, you weren’t going to try to transmaterialize yourself onto another planet that may not even exist. But if it didn’t exist, then what were the pictures on your laptop hard-drive taken of? Costumes? Spray-painted foliage? Perhaps it was all ‘Hollywood’. You had never been to America before, but in perspective, it did sound like the type of thing that Americans might do.

No, you knew that wasn’t true. You couldn’t shake it from your mind. You had been given moons, planets, an entire solar system. You had been given an entire galactic address that potentially all of the minds at NASA and even the most dutiful of delivery logisticians wouldn’t be able to verify- and you knew the stars well. The accounts given by the individuals that you had spoken to were in line with nothing you had ever heard. Alien. The pictures they had sent were of skies that were impossible, filled with constellations you had never seen before, and composed of stars that you didn’t recognize.

Even gazing upon them through an LED-backlit screen filled you with a sense of astonishment and confusion and anger. A vortex of questions dwelled within you, a spiraling black hole that grew ever larger as it consumed countless answers that were never enough to satisfy. As a result, you had taken up journaling. You’d already filled three books. You had a lot of time; that was just a sailor’s life. A wave washes over the bow and brings your head back to the current situation. You were a few degrees off of your course, which you corrected right away so that the mid-batten of your mainsail would align with Polaris. Something still felt off.

You look around, unnerved by the amount of noise you were hearing on the water. Of course, it was night and mildly windy off the coast, but the swells should not have ached as they did. The wind wasn’t high enough to generate spray like that. You squint around, stepping out from the helm to inspect the ship.

There amidst the blackness of the sea erupted a plume of white water over a glimmering dark rectangle. It happened within a matter of seconds. The bow of the Horizont careened into the shipping container at full-speed with a guttural iron clang. What steady footing was now thrown to the wind upon impact. You barely had time to turn the helm before you were slept off of your feet and thrown with a force onto the top of the cabin. You swear in pain from the bottom of your stomach as a wave breaks over the Port side of the ship and onto your crumpled body. Grasping for stability, you quickly hug the mast with weakened arms. You feel the sails twist in the wind, suddenly unable to go in the direction that nature intended them. Your boat is moving on its own. If you do not do something, you will risk taking the full force of the wind laterally and capsize.

With a pained grunt, you manage to lift yourself quickly to your feet and dive across the deck to undo the jib sheet. The pressure eases almost immediately as the jib is set to let fly. You catch your breath, wanting to keel right then and there over the rail. You finally get a good look at the culprit.

“RIPE ‘EM FIGS” lay boldly printed in faded red lettering across the rogue shipping container- which must have fallen off of a ship in the local channel and been adrift ever since. The fruit likely lent itself to its buoyancy. The situation wasn’t entirely uncommon but was rarely ever reported as most shipping companies were afraid of jeopardizing their name if they lost too many containers.

“Fucking ‘ell.” You swear, spitting out onto the floating harbinger that had pierced the hull of your home. You look down at yourself, your shirt now ripped and with a healthy gash across your chest and arm. “Fuck.” You spend the next few precious minutes reefing your mainsail and latching the helm to minimize any movement with or against the wind. You check quickly below decks, and the situation is dire. Where your sleeping bunk had once lain was now caved in and partially leaning on the container for support. Water was gushing through at a steady, but not completely unmanageable pace thanks to the wedge of the container- which wasn’t going anywhere for the time being. Even still, you already knew you were in trouble.

The hole was too great to plaster alone and at sea. You were going to have to lose the ship.


	3. Chapter 3

H.G. Wells wrote that the crisis of today is the joke of tomorrow, and while you did enjoy his work you were quite doubtful that you would be laughing about this particular crisis anytime soon. Within a matter of seconds, a fine vessel that had sailed through hurricanes, squalls, and treacherous capes had been brought to its knees by a hunk of metal that somebody had accidentally dropped.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” You began. “This is the Horizont. Horizont. Horizont. MSI 503196477, Callsign VYGR. Over.”

Silence fell over Channel 17.

“Mayday. This is the Horizont. MSI 503196477. Callsign VYGR. My position is, er…” You take a moment to tap the GPS, “Latitude -20.389679, Longitude 57.830385. I’ve struck a shipping container. Over.”

You listen intently.

“Mauritius. Do you read me? Over.” You beg, slamming your hand gently, but repeatedly on the table. 

“Mauritius, this is the Horizont. It’s just one on board and I require immediate assistance. We’ve struck a shipping container and the hull has been jeopardized. Over.”

The radio sputters as some unknown signal seems to spit back at you in a mockery of unintelligible noise. You think that you can hear a voice in response- but it crackles out as quickly as it arrives.

“Mayday, Mauritius. This is the Horizont, Horiz-"  
You don’t have time to finish your sentence. A flood of water swarms in from the bow cabin, soaking your feet in the cool brine. You swear loudly as you slam the radio’s talk-piece back down onto the receiver, wading through the mounting puddle to throw on your tall boots in a hurry.

You had precious seconds. What do you do? What should you do? You need to salvage what you can and get to shore. You could take a raft, or you could use the box to give you a shot at launching yourself to safety- but that wouldn’t be a guarantee that you could take everything. You were already injured.

You rushed forwards, not eager to distribute more weight to the bow but not seeing a choice in the matter. Upon squeezing into the door you’re greeted with the sharp, metal corner of the shipping container that just stove your entire life in- and with it a mounting waterfall of drink sloshing through the jagged hull. 

Your bed had seen better days.

With a grunt, you manage to pry open the storage bin overhead- wincing as the saltwater rinses over your wounds. You gather in your hands a portable first-aid kit and a change of clothes before diving back out. You are unable to shut the teak door behind you. You toss the kit and clothes onto the table before throwing the port sofa’s cushion off in a blur and yank the storage compartment beneath it open. There, wedged in its holster, was the box.

To the uninitiated, the box resembled something that one might use for igniting dynamite- a square oak frame complemented by a firm, golden metallic handle. Its use was simple but required immense concentration and knowhow. To those familiar with physics, its properties could be equated with a supercatalyst that, when in direct skin contact with its user, would then entangle itself with their mass and energy to allow them to simultaneously superimpose themselves while theoretically observing themselves in whatever position they could imagine. 

To those unfamiliar with physics, the box was a magic teleporting box that was only used for emergencies because it hurt a lot and was dangerous for similar reasons. Your grandfather had expressly warned against using it carelessly- and it was one of those things that you never disobeyed.

You set the box carefully onto the table before rushing back to grab a second crucial item from the sofa storage: the flaregun. Your survival instincts kicking in, you rush up the ladder to the cabin and you search hopefully around for any nearby traffic. The quiet darkness seems impermeable. Your ship groans as the swells gently wash over the shipping container as if this were the world’s most ironic calming ocean noises tape, and your spirit falters as a result. Holding your arm carefully at a 60-degree angle, you grit your teeth and look away as your finger squeezes the orange trigger. A flare jettisons deep into the sky astern, leaving a forlorn trail behind it. That would have to do. You were running out of time.

A swell washes over starboard as you dart down the ladder into the main cabin again. The water was almost knee-high at this point. You would need a bag. You had a ditty bag packed with snacks already that you could use so that wouldn’t be an issue. Like most sailors, you were at least prepared for the worst-case. You just didn’t think it would come. You didn’t think it would be so anti-climactic. You didn’t think it would take only a second to lose your home to a rogue shipping container full of figs.

Your home. What was your home? Was the Horizont your home? You mull over getting to shore. Who would pick you up? Surely a boat would be on its way soon- but you wouldn’t be able to hold out on board since the only thing preventing a nosedive into the brine was a giant metal box of fruit. The rescue wouldn’t be anybody you knew since you weren’t able to reach them by radio. What would you tell them? You could make a jump towards your grandfather’s. That would take energy, but you would be safe with him. But you’d be back there. But you’d be away from here.

What about your work?

Your work.

You have to save it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, there is a flashing gif in this chapter. Or there's supposed to be, anyway. Maybe it won't work

Time has incredible properties in an emergency situation. What’s more is that the human mind, not unlike a massive gravitational force, seems to be able to dilate and stretch time as it sees fit. Seconds can turn to days. Months turn to minutes. Minutes can turn to hours. While you hurriedly scooped your belongings into your back, stretching the canvas with the load of supplies you were carrying, the sensation of a deep and unsettling catastrophe began to resonate within you. You noticed it first when the water you were standing in seemed to be flowing to Portside- but the guttural grating of iron and screaming of sails aloft all but confirmed it: the wind was picking up.

With a jolting smack, the _Horizont_ rocked deeply to Port- enough to knock your previously dry supplies into the water below and send you careening back into the galley sink. You cry out in pain, the wooden counter jabbing into your back as your head narrowly misses the cabinet above. The ship rights itself again as you fall to your knees, dry-heaving in pain. You writhe in the cold, invasive water.

For a moment it feels as if nothing in the world moves an inch outside of the water surrounding you. You think of your grandfather. You think of the time you two sailed to India. You remember when he left you alone on the ship when you were only 14, and you wouldn’t reunite with him until two years later. You think of what your parents might have thought when they died. You think of your work. Your food. Your clothes, all of which were now soaked and weathered with salt. You think of home. This was supposed to be home. Like a white light, it all flashes before your eyes and for a moment all you can see is darkness.

“For the love of god,” You cry in unison with your ship as a swarm of figs begins to stream from your bow cabin. You grab the supply bag and steady yourself against the counter, the strap now squishy with brine as you swing it over your battered shoulder. You feel the water run down your back. The ship is going down and it’s time to make a decision. A tattered, soggy book floats into your leg. It’s one of your notebooks on the alien planet.

Alternia.

You decide that you simply cannot die right now.

There’s a hefty amount of thinking to be done and considerations to be made when investigating a potential new home, especially when you’re pressured to make a decision. Sometimes that pressure comes in the form of an open house or a deadline to sign a lease, and other times in the flooded cabin of a sinking sailing yacht. Snatching the book out of the water, you throw it open on the charting table, nearly ripping the first few pages off in your haste to do so. A planet with two moons orbiting a rather hot star. Rich with water and oxygen-producing flora. A developed and complex ecosystem. Intelligent alien life. Fantastical.

Real?

You had pictures. You’d spoken with them. You had video, audio, drawings, countless conversations with strange individuals and almost never the same story twice. Yet, they were all consistent. They had to be real. At least as real as the threat of drowning, which, at the moment, was quite real. You shook your head.

Somebody wise would head back to shore. They would go home and recuperate their losses with their family. That person didn’t exist within you, though. You didn’t know a single person onshore outside of the kind woman who sold you all that orange juice. Your home was sinking and most of your family was dead. You took a deep breath. There was still a lot to live for. The soaked journal spoke to you like a map- its pages brimming with purpose and intrigue. You knew you could get there. You believed you could. You knew it existed. You had the evidence. You couldn’t risk losing it. It was all you would have left.

You just had to do it.

 Grabbing ahold of the handles of the box before you, you stood up to take one last look at the cabin.

You must admit that it had seen better days. This was going to be a mess to clean up for somebody.

You close your eyes in concentration. You’re scared- but you’re sure. The box tingles in your wet grasp and it feels like an extension of your body. The sounds of the ship and the sea and the wind roar quietly around you. You can’t feel your wounds anymore. Your body acts instinctively. You will make it. This was your lifeline.

 

19:17.

**Author's Note:**

> A Homestuck story. Luke Wilson is a character I have been writing for a few years, now. Slowly, I've been chipping away and refining his story to the point where I can actually tell it in prose/art! I also have a small game that I'm developing in my spare time, so maybe I can even get that out there at some point! Thank you very much for reading!


End file.
